


They Call You Silence

by ihaventsleptyetits4amoops



Series: Who Are These Weirdos Anyway? [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Coulson Lives, No Phase 2 Compliance, POV Second Person, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:46:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ihaventsleptyetits4amoops/pseuds/ihaventsleptyetits4amoops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all your siblings you’re most like your mother, or so they tell you. That’s okay. Sharon Carter is one hell of a badass, being like her isn’t a bad thing. And two small Steve Rogerses is enough for the world anyway. (Ha, you just called James small.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Call You Silence

Your parents meet in the wreckage of Manhattan, after the Battle of New York. They hit it off immediately but they don’t start dating straight away, which is understandable really. It only feels like days since your father lost pretty much everything that mattered to him, he wouldn’t exactly be ready to start anything serious. (He still has days where he gets quiet and stares off into space remembering, but he’s better now than he was back then, apparently.) They do, however, become very close friends. They remain this way until Bucky sees them together. “Steve,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Shut up, Buck,” your dad replies. They’re dating the next week. (Bucky is insufferably proud, even 20 years later.)

You are born quietly and without much fanfare in the Medical Wing of Stark Tower two years after your brother. He, on the other hand, was born very dramatically with much blood and screaming. Typical. (It’s Jamie in a nutshell really, blood and screaming.) Aside from an epic bout of the flu when you’re two and a half, the first few years of your life are uneventful. You pick up a sister when you’re three. Peter Parker is a fixture and nobody’s quite sure how but he can climb _anything_ , including the walls and the Hulk, so you think he’s pretty cool. Your life is as normal as it gets for a child living with superheroes.

Your first words aren’t in English (shocking, you know), they’re in Gaeilge. Which was also, incidentally, your father’s ‘first’ language. People like to forget that Captain America is the son of Irish immigrants. They also like to pretend he didn’t grow up in a notoriously gay neighbourhood, and that he’s straight. What can you say? Reporters are weird. (Your first words aren’t the weirdest, anyway. Oliver’s first word, you know, was a Romani curse after Wanda stubbed her toe next to him. She was horrified, but Bucky thought it was hilarious.)

Corey Foster is three months younger than you, which is a lot of time to a small child. He and Maya Barton are your best friends. The three of you are practically inseparable and each one equally a troublemaker. It’s not uncommon to hear whoever was supposed to be watching you all having to ask JARVIS where you’ve got to. Usually followed by “Oh my God, how did they get in there?” or “What the hell are they doing?” in increasingly panicked voices. You don’t know what they expected from the children of spies and gods, you really don’t. (Pietro proves to be particularly good at finding you before you cause too much trouble but he really should _not_ have been allowed to actually babysit.)

All in all, your formative years aren’t too traumatic, not for lack of trying on Tony’s part. Or Thor’s. (Dude really needs to remember to wear pants.) School is okay for the first few years, when the other kids are too young to really know (or care) who superheroes actually are. He’s Captain America, not necessarily Steve Rogers, to them and that’s just fine with you. It’s bad enough that there are pictures in practically every magazine practically every time your dad does something. (Shocking News: Captain America Breathes.)

For nearly seven years, it looked like you were going to be the “normal” Rogers child but it’s not to be (sorry Sarah). You’re colour blind. Deuteranopia, apparently. That’s red-green colour blindness in normal-person speak. They figure it out when you, the innocently curious six year old, ask Captain America (AKA Dad) if he agrees that the stripy bits on his uniform look icky. (What? They do! They’re some sort of weird puke-yellow.) After looking confused for a minute, he asks what you mean. You point at the “red” bits. Or, the bits you have been reliably informed are “red”, whatever that looks like. (Maya told you and you trust her, generally.) He looks confused for another minute, probably consults JARVIS, and makes an appointment to test your colour-vision. At least they stop giving you crap about being a picky eater. (Meat looks disgusting, it’s not your fault.)

At school, you learn to check all the coloured pencils before you use them and Maya tells you anything that isn’t labelled. You learn to cope. The other kids stop making fun of you when you glare at them. At home, it doesn’t matter as much. Someone usually warns you before you accidentally put ketchup on your ice cream or something. Okay, so one time James didn’t, but your dad gave him Captain America’s Disappointed Face of Doom and he never did it again. (You’d think Jamie’d be more sympathetic, really.) All in all, it’s not the worst thing that ever happened.

The worst thing that ever happened, pretty much, is the other kids at school getting old enough to realise that Captain America is your dad. Suddenly, they all want to be friends with you. You want them all to _go away_. It's all too much attention and you've always been happy with Maya and Corey, thank you very much. Sixth grade was a great time. (You’re drowning in your own sarcasm.) It only improves from there. (Drowning.)

You’ve never been much of a social butterfly, really. It’s not your scene. (Maya, on the other hand, becomes Queen of the school practically the second she sets foot in the place.) Oh, you’re friendly enough, mostly. Sometimes. Your press smile has been perfect for years. You just don’t like it and never have done. All of your family are private people, by nature, necessity, or both (everyone thinks Tony’s the exception but he isn’t, not really). The press are everywhere though, and you can never really go anywhere without someone recognising you. It sucks. (You look too much like your father.)

Your brother, Jamie, (who, incidentally, also looks a lot like your father) starts high school when you’re in seventh grade. He’s worried, you can tell (everyone can tell), especially since Freya and Rowena had trouble. He’ll be fine, you’re sure. He’s likeable enough (unlike you). Oliver, on the other hand, _well._ The less said, the better.

You were wrong. James was _not_ fine. In fact, he was exceptionally pissed off. Oliver was worse. Oh God. You’re so screwed.

Two years later and it’s your turn. Your first day of high school. Dear God. It’s just as awful as you thought it would be, as Rowena told you it would be. (Jamie told you it would be fine, the lying bastard.) Maya, rather unfairly but not altogether surprisingly, takes to it like a duck to water. You give it a week before she’s Queen of the place. (So unfair.) You, on the other hand, do not possess the ability to control the masses with a glance, and thus have to put up with the constant stream of people who want to be your friend because Captain America’s your dad.  Equally, there’s a never ending stream of people who hate you for the same reason. You don’t much care what they think, you just want them to _fuck off_ already.

As it turns out, you only have to deal with the masses for about four hours. That’s how long it takes for someone to piss you off enough to punch them.

It’s a Senior, who you punched. He was being an asshole and picking on the younger kids (maybe you haven’t quite realised yet that you _are_ one of the younger kids), the girls particularly. He’s harassing them, making them uncomfortable and being generally an asshole, so you walk right up to him (he’s at least a head taller than you) and tell him to knock it off. He laughs at the “ickle Freshie” telling him what to do. You punch him. He goes down. You don’t even get in trouble, since he’s too embarrassed to admit to being knocked down by a Freshman of all things and doesn’t tell any of the staff. To the best of your knowledge, he doesn’t harass any more girls either. And it puts people off either talking to you or messing with you so, win-win.

(When Bucky finds out about it, he smirks, looks at your father and says, “Look, it’s tiny you all over again.” Your dad splutters indignantly for a few minutes but eventually has to concede the point.)

After that incident, you stick with Corey and Maya (when’s she’s not busy being Queen of Everything) and nobody bothers you all that much. Granted, there are idiots, but there are idiots everywhere and there isn’t much you can do about it. It’s a fact of life and you just have to accept it. You are perfectly happy to fade into the background and be ignored. Listening to Corey complain about AP Bio is, and likely always will be, infinitely preferable to the social minefield that is high school.

That’s the key difference between you and Maya. She catches attention and holds it, deliberately drawing all eyes to her, leading the crowd wherever she wants them. They don’t even notice they’ve been played until it’s far too late, if at all. You, on the other hand, prefer the shadows, hiding in the dark until the last possible moment, where nobody can see you. The spotlight is _not_ where you want to be. (Sometimes, though, it’s unavoidable.) You’re both equally successful, whatever your methods, so nobody really has a problem with it. (Corey just grins at you both as he _literally disappears_ and magic is cheating, dammit.)

Speaking of successes, you win a national photo competition under the name ‘Matthew Carter’ and a few of your other photos get published in a magazine, which is pretty cool. You like photography, have done since you were little, and Peter takes credit for getting you into it. You let him. Your father already gets credit for the other two anyway, and he’s not exactly wrong. (He’s not exactly right, but he’s not exactly wrong.) There’s just something nice about knowing people like what you’ve created (and not because of who you are either).

Of course, you also nearly get kidnapped, which is less cool. And also very painful for all involved. (Breaking your wrist in four places _really fucking hurts_.)

Maybe it’s best to start from the beginning with that one. You’re walking home, alone (Corey’s ill and Maya has a Thing, it’s not your fault), when you get jumped. Idiots. Jumped by a large group of men with very high-grade nap-time drugs. Idiots who’ve done their homework then.

You wake up alone in a dark room, tied to a chair. (And maybe the “what the fuck” moment lasts longer than you’d like.) Well then. After about five minutes, you conclude that they (whoever they are) can tie knots like a sailor and that this is going to hurt. Then you force one of the knots, splintering the arm of the chair in the process. (Wood, seriously?) You were right, it hurts like hell. Well done. You called it. Jesus fucking _ow_. With one arm now free, you can make short work of the remaining knots with the knife you keep in your boot. (Bucky approves.) And then your captors decide to actually show their faces. Fantastic.

You press your damaged (fucking painful) wrist against your hip to protect it, when, really, you’d much rather be holding it against your chest to stop it moving ever again. When this comes down to a fist fight, as it always does, an injury like this is not a weakness you want to advertise, regardless of what instinct has to say about it. (If the stupid mistake doesn’t kill you, Natasha will when she finds out.) It occurs to you that you have absolutely no idea what time it is or how long you’ve been gone. Hopefully they’re looking for you.

The bald guy, you assume he’s the leader, he’s flanked by enough goons for it, looks rather upset that you’ve escaped the chair. You’ve probably ruined his opportunity to monologue. Shame. He can suck it up, seriously, the dick tied you to a chair, you clearly got the worse end of the deal. You raise an eyebrow, saying nothing, and try to pretend that nothing hurts and you’re not confused as hell. Clearly, you’ve been kidnapped, but you have no idea why.

Obligingly, Bald Dickhead starts to talk. It’s just the usual crap about making Captain America suffer for some victory or perceived slight (perhaps an actual slight) by taking things that matter to him. (You object to being called a “thing”.) You’ve heard it all a thousand times before and, if it’s all the same to them, you’ll be going now. Minion #5 points a gun at you as you move towards the door. Apparently, it isn’t all the same to them then.

“Okay, okay,” you say placatingly, raising both hands (resolutely ignoring the fact that the right one hurts like hell) in surrender. “I’m not going anywhere.” He lowers the gun.

Then, you pick up the chair and slam it into his face with all the strength you can muster. It all goes to hell after that.

Once the carnage is over and you are surrounded by unconscious men, battered, bruised and bloody but victorious (fuck yeah), you reach into Minion #3’s pocket and take his phone. You call your father to come and pick you up and to get SHIELD to clean up the mess. You settle into the corner of the room, still clutching the phone. As you end the call, you catch the time. Midnight. (Happy 16th Birthday.)

At least you’re ambidextrous, so you can still write for the most part and you aren’t completely useless with one immobilised arm. Which is good, because, you know, you have exams and shit to do while you’re in the stupid cast. It’s only for three weeks rather than six (thank you healing factor), which is an improvement you suppose. Still, it doesn’t help now, while you’re juggling cup, cast, bag, books and a door handle. Where are your friends when you need them? Seriously, the first time they let you out of their sight in over a week and it’s now? The doors in the science building are actually ridiculous and you need about four hands to hold everything and open them. You have one. (You keep struggling for about five minutes more until Corey finally comes to rescue you. You’re nothing if not stubborn.)

Stubbornness is, frankly, the only reason you haven’t punched another somebody. If you hear “bonsoir” pronounced as “bong sewer” one more time, you swear to God. (This is supposed to be AP French. Advanced Placement. People that take this class are supposed to actually know shit.) You haven’t punched anyone yet though (hooray for self-control), however much you might like to. However much it might make this class more interesting. (French is your fourth language.)

That’s when your phone goes off, your text alert blaring loudly despite the fact your phone was turned off and on silent. Corey and Maya’s phones both go off as well. Clearly it’s important, the only way it would have gotten through is if Tony had JARVIS hack your phone and he’d only do that if it was important. (You have an agreement. He doesn’t get you into unnecessary trouble, and you don’t mess with his tech for the hell of it.) Dread settles in your stomach. He’d only do it if it was important and _bad_. You read the text quickly.

You’re not quick enough. Maya jumps from her seat and sprints from the room. Alex got himself blown up. They’re saying he’ll survive but he’s in surgery and it’s pretty serious. This was _not_ the kind of interesting you wanted, dammit! You follow Maya as fast as you can, leaving Corey behind to make your excuses.

Alex survives (barely) but Coulson’s pissed as all hell and Alex isn’t going anywhere by himself any time soon. James and Oliver graduate high school, both set for Stanford in the fall. (Oliver is going to make one hell of a lawyer.) They also take this opportunity to get their shit together. You, along with Sarah and Will, walk into the kitchen and find them practically eating each other’s faces, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Oh my God!” Will cries, covering his eyes. “That is disgusting! You are terrible! People eat in here!” Sarah gags and mutters about the possibility of bleaching her brain. You silently agree. It’s (a relief) disgusting. At least the crushing sexual tension (that you’ve spent the last four years trying very hard not to think about) is finally gone.

You hightail it out of the kitchen all the same. There are some things you just don’t want to see.

After six weeks of constantly checking around corners, you're almost glad that James and Oliver are leaving. They're almost disgustingly adorable, but there's only so much you can take. It's time for them to go be adorable in California where you don't have to see it. Your mom cries as you see them off and your dad is a little teary-eyed. You understand why. It's a big moment for them, children flying the nest and living away from home for the first time, but you don't really feel it. You're going to miss him, probably, eventually, but it's not like you'll never see him again.

A week later, you go back to school. It's still full of assholes and jerks, just like you remember it. It's almost comforting, in a way, to know that you can always count on these people to be dicks. It's kind of nice to have that constant when the people you love are almost constantly in danger. It would be nice if one of the constants in your life wasn't the level of teenage dickishness you deal with on a daily basis but beggars can't be choosers. It could be worse.

When James comes home for Christmas, he joins the Avengers and the ensuing media storm traps you inside for most of the holidays. This is slightly problematic because you still have _all_ of your Christmas shopping to do. Thank God for the internet. (You could get out, if you really wanted to but _effort_.) You try not to hate him for it, since it isn’t really his fault and, mostly, you succeed. You’re still glad when he leaves again.

The rest of the school year passes in a haze of schoolwork and teenage assholery. Finals come and go, as awful as they ever were. Abbie and Grace graduate, completing a full set and leaving you as the eldest child in high school. Woohoo. Next year you’ll be graduating too. You aren’t thinking about that. Not yet.

Summer is obnoxiously warm this year and you spend several weeks feeling like you’re about to melt into a puddle of seventeen year old goo. You’re practically drowning in your own sweat. It’s disgusting. (And so is your brother.) Maya, somehow, still manages to look perfect. Corey uses magic to stay cool, which is absolutely cheating. Your friends are so unfair.

Unfairness and stifling heat aside, the summer is fairly uneventful. No major disasters to speak of, aside from an _incident_ involving James, Oliver and an unlocked door. (Perhaps, one day, you will eventually recover from the trauma of witnessing what you witnessed. Maybe.) You go see a few films, spend a week in Canada with your parents and siblings, and take a hell of a lot of photos. Canada is actually quite pretty. You even go to a party. It sucks, and you hate half the people there, but Maya asked you and Corey to go with her and you’ve yet to figure out how not to do everything she asks of you.

In September, your final year of high school begins. You’re not ready. You have no idea what you want to do after, no idea what you want to do with the rest of your life. You’ve got months to figure it out. (Months does not seem as long now as it once did.)

The new school year also brings with it feelings. Feelings you absolutely refuse to think about. Maya is beautiful and hilarious and perfect and she is your best friend and you definitely do not have a crush on her. At all. Nor have you ever thought of Corey in any way other than as your best friend. Ever. This has never happened and it never will.

(Denial is a river in Egypt and you intend to live in it.)

Your name is Matthew Timothy Rogers, aged seventeen, and you are _absolutely screwed_.


End file.
